


Metamorph: Ghosts of Christmas Past

by andthekitchensink



Series: Metamorphoses [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Other, talking about death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 13:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17163083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink
Summary: It's the morning of December 25, 2039, and Sumo is home alone. He knows what happens when you're home alone over the holidays, and he doesn't like it one bit. Hank and Connor visit Cole's grave, unaware of the havoc wreaked on their home in their absence.





	Metamorph: Ghosts of Christmas Past

**Author's Note:**

> This is a snippet from the same "universe" as Metamorph, my monster fic. Takes place after Metamorph wraps up, and also after Monochromat will end (when that's finished). I can't stay away from this 'verse. Sorry, but not really.
> 
> Hank used to love this season, but he hasn't for years now, and though he's made great strides with regards to his mental issues and abusing alcohol, he's at an all-time low. Connor's done giving him space, and tells him some hard facts.
> 
> Basically it's Christmas fluff, with a twist - but the two of them visiting Cole's grave? That's thanks to something Witchgems commented some 86 days ago, according to my inbox. So, witchgems, if you're reading this, I hope you like it. Thanks for the inspiration! :)

* * *

 

 

Sumo was very concerned.

 

It was Christmas morning, Sunday the 25th of December, 2039, and the house was quiet and dark, save for the candle holder on the kitchen table, four candles burned down as if arranged by height - one lit every Sunday four weeks before Christmas. For as long as he could remember it was something Hank had done (that’s his human), though he didn’t know why. It was tradition, and Sumo for one could sit in front of those candles forever and a day. It was something him and his brother Cole had had in common. They could sit and stare into the flames, side by side, until distractions presented themselves, as they were wont to do around this time of year. There used to be fairy lights, and tea candles, and shiny pretty things all over the house. And candy. And cookies, and food to turn one’s mouth into a waterfall of drool.

 

But since Cole went away, there were no fairy lights, no tea candles, no shiny things or pretty things; no candy, no cookies, no food. Only that candle holder on the kitchen table, one candle lit every Sunday, counting down to a holiday that went by like something that had to be endured. Sumo would sit with his chin on the edge of the table, torn between watching his human staring into the candle flame, and doing so himself. He could remember a sense of anticipation in the air, and a sense of calm as the family prepared for the most festive season of the year - or the one they appreciated the most.

 

No more. Not for the past...one, two, three, many winters past. No anticipation. Just a dark, heavy weight settling over the house like a coming storm. No one had lit a single candle all week!

 

It had been like this forever, now. Even with Connor around, Sumo’s favorite not-human and de facto pack leader now that they were all family-- even with him around, Hank hadn’t been truly happy since this Summer. Sumo could’ve been blind and he’d still _smell it_.

 

Yes, Sumo was very concerned.

 

To make matters worse, he was home alone - and he _knew_ what happened to houses when someone was home alone around Christmas. He’d watched the movies. All of them. Several times over.

 

And then, as if to prove him right, there was a knock at the door. Sumo frowned the mightiest frown he’d ever frowned, just like Connor had taught him, and hunched low to the floor, ready to go for the jugular of anyone who thought they could mess with his house.

 

The knob on the front door turned, clicked, and it slowly swung open. As one black shoe crossed the threshold Sumo started growling, low and menacing, a warning to anyone who dared trespass.

 

Connor had taught him that, too.

 

***

 

This late in December, the memorial garden of the Detroit Lakes United Methodist Church was a winter wonderland in a league of its own. The fresh snow positively sparkled like a dusting of fine glitter atop the old, compacted snow building up over the past month. In the year he had known Hank, he had never once mentioned the garden, or the circumstances of his son’s final resting place. Overall, 2039 had been a good year for them - starting out on a very low note, granted, with the trial following the shooting at the station, day before New Year’s 2038, but once that was settled, it had felt like they were over the really big hurdle and the rest was a smooth ride. Well. Connor thought it was smooth enough, because he didn’t mind the bumps in the road. They were married since February 18, androids had gained civil rights in April, Hank had been sober for most of the year, and they had had the most wondrous of summers together. So far, everything had been fine. And then, August came along with the end of Summer, and Hank’s relative zen started wearing off by increments. By September, which was the month both he and Cole were born, he had slipped into a short tempered, irritable state that never really seemed to go away. Connor made it his mission to be as frictionless as possible. Non-stick. Teflon. Both him and Connor Mark II made an effort to give Hank as much space as needed, at work and at home, but there was only so much space you could give a man and still show him you were _there_ for him. Connor found himself faced with a bit of an oxymoron. It wasn’t the first time: he’d broken up with Hank under the assumption that if you truly loved someone you should set them free if it was in their best interests (and he had truly believed it was, he had just missed the bit where he should’ve asked Hank about his best interests), he had welcomed certain death in order to continue living on (although he’d changed his mind at the last minute), he had married a man who was (once) vehemently opposed to androids _and_ marriage… So, he knew a thing or two about factors contradicting each other. It didn’t make his life any easier, however - but it did mean he occasionally reneged on his unspoken promise to give Hank space in order to crowd him a bit. This was one such occasion. It wasn’t the first one in the past six months, and it wasn’t going to be the last. Not until Hank worked his way back from the deep, dark trenches of his depression - however briefly - with the help of a friend or two.

 

He sat beside Hank on one of the benches usually surrounded by a variety of plantlife, chlorophyll green mingling with all colors of the rainbow, but now framed by crystalline white as far as the eye could see. The snow crunched under the soles of his shoes. For every breath Hank took it was followed by a plume of white smoke, it was so cold outside. On the one hand, Connor found it charming to visibly see the human breath, with all its fascinating, wispy shapes and swirls. The pattern was different every time. On the other hand, Hank was freezing, and quiet. Neither one of them had said a single word for 15.33 minutes now.

 

Hank expelled another gust of air like a precursor to communication, as if he had finally learned how to read minds. He brushed his bare hand back and forth over his mouth, beard rasping under his fingers. “I hate this time of year,” he said, quiet and weary-sounding. He had been quiet for a long time now, and he was never the gushing, talkative type to begin with. “Six months of the year, I think maybe I can get through this. I have my good days and...horrible days, but it’s manageable. It’s been-- more than manageable, since having you around.”

 

He glanced over, their eyes met; Connor smiled at him, but stayed quiet, hoping it would incentivize him to keep going. It did. “And then August comes along, and all I can think of is that it’s getting too close to September, and then… All I can think about is-- For _months_!”

 

Connor reached out, to take Hank’s bare, freezing hand between his own and increased his own temperature by a few degrees. Just enough to stop Hank getting frostbite. He really should be wearing gloves out, but he was a grown man and Connor felt there had to be a limit to his nannybot tendencies. “You’re still grieving,” Connor said, matching Hank’s volume if not his tone - quiet for quiet, soft-spoken but firm. “Isn’t that what you told Mr Peters last year? That the grieving process can take years, if not a lifetime? That you’ll never forget the pain, but you’ll learn to cope.”

 

Hank shrugged stiffly. In this cold weather, his shoulder tended to act up. Almost an entire year since the shooting, and he still wasn’t fully recovered. “Fuck if I remember.”

 

Connor could spot a lie as good as anyone - Hank remembered, alright, but for whatever reason he wasn’t ready to take his own advice just yet. Connor kept a firm hold on his hand, rubbing some warmth into it. Hank let him, not a single word of protest leaving his lips. Just when Connor thought that’s the way it was going to be, Hank surprised him. He had a way of doing that, when he least expected it.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, mournful in a way that Connor suspected had little to do with whatever transgressions Hank felt he’d committed. When he looked up, Hank’s eyes were impossibly big and blue, and bright with remorse.

 

“Hank… What for? You haven’t done anything wrong. Don’t apologize for being sad.”

 

“No.” He shook his head, turning 45 degrees to face Connor better, to sandwich their hands properly. “I’m sorry I haven’t… I made such a fuss about this being your first Thanksgiving and your first Christmas and-- I haven’t _done anything_. We don’t even have crazy lights on the porch!”

 

So therein lay the problem. Connor knew the underlying issues, but here was the more immediate one. Hank was feeling guilty about dropping the ball. He squeezed Hank’s hand and looked him right in the eye and told him in no uncertain terms, “I don’t _need_ lights on the porch. Or anything else. We can still celebrate Christmas, our own way. We’ll fill the house with candles and snuggle under the blankets on the couch. We can listen to heavy metal all day long, and it’ll still be Christmas. It’ll be _our_ Christmas.”

 

Unorthodox as his suggestions were, they drew a tiny little light to the back of Hank’s eyes. “Dad used to do that, when I was a kid. Candlesticks everywhere. Holders, glass trays packed with tea candles. Fire hazards on every flat surface.”

 

Connor tilted his head, arched his eyebrows in query. “Did he ever actually burn the house down?”

 

“No. He came close a couple times, tho’… ” Hank grinned, briefly, and ducked his head. Quiet again. “After Cole was born, my own candle crazy had to be toned down. Andrea wouldn’t have it. Not with a baby in the house, period.”

 

“So...that’s why you’ve kept the candle holder in the kitchen? For Advent?”

 

Another puff of air, dispersing in the cold. “Cole loved lighting those candles even more than I did. He was drawn to it, completely mesmerized. Every day he’d beg me to keep it lit a little while longer. Completely screwed up my system, but I didn’t care. He just-- loved them so much. I swear it’s the only time he’d sit still for more than five minutes.”

 

Hank’s lips almost smiled, but his voice was thick with emotion, the way even the happiest memories can hurt like Hell. Connor kissed his cheek, reached up warm hands to smooth away fresh tears. “Cole loved this time of year,” he said, calm, gentle. “And all you can think about is that he’s not here to enjoy it anymore, so why should you. Am I getting close?”

 

He watched his partner shrug like the weight of the world was on his shoulders and he was struggling to get up an icy hill. A modern day Prometheus in the flesh. Minus the Frankenstein factor. Only one of them had ever risen from the grave, metaphorical or otherwise, and it wasn’t Hank.

 

“Then...how about, next year, we go completely overboard with decorations, get the biggest tree we can find - or get a fake one - deck out the house enough that you could see it from space!”

 

Connor’s strategy paid off: rather than looking like the world was ending and he was embarrassed about it, Hank lifted his eyes to blink at him like a cartoon owl. “Sorry, what? From space?”

 

“Not literally speaking,” Connor explained, feeling a grin spreading over his face. Hank looked so caught off guard, so utterly dumbfounded by the mere suggestion of going all-in for Christmas 2040. “But, the way I see it… You used to love Christmas just as much as Cole did. And...just because he isn’t _corporeally_ here with us...that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy Christmas without him. Enjoy it _for him_. Be with him through your memories.

 

“The energy stored within him can’t be destroyed, only converted, so technically speaking he isn’t really gone. And even if you were to break up the atoms that built him, they didn’t go away when he died. The subatomic particles would continue to exist independently... His atoms won’t ever disappear, they’re just...becoming component parts of different molecular compositions… Like the grass under the snow, or the flowers in the garden come springtime. He’s still part of this world, like every single living or non-living thing in existence since the universe started to expand...”

 

Hank stared at him for a moment that stretched out forever, jaw moving side to side, lips pressed together but shifting over unspoken words. He swallowed against what looked to be a painful obstruction of the throat, eyes bright with unshed tears, and bent to kiss the back of Connor’s hand. He patted it once, squeezed their hand-sandwich tight. “I never thought about it that way,” he said, rasping and low. “His ashes were buried here, mixed in with the soil.”

 

Connor nodded, but stayed quiet, lifting his hand again to brush a stray tear from Hank’s cheek with his thumb.

 

“That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said, you know,” Hank went on. “About Cole. About him…’living on’ in death.”

 

“It’s all about particle physics,” Connor said, matter-of-fact rather than any kind of fake modesty. He picked up the corner of his forest green scarf, one of very few items he’d kept from his time squatting in homeless shelters and churches, and dabbed the corner at Hank’s leaking nose. He’d learned from the best; Hank even chuckled, awkward but okay with it.

 

“Let’s go home,” he said. “Get some pizza on the way, get you fed and warmed up before your extremities start falling off.”

 

“Pizza. On Christmas Day. Where’re we gonna even _find_ pizza on Christmas Day?”

 

“The frozen foods aisle at the nearest 24/7? Come on, get up, let’s go.”

 

But Hank didn’t budge, even when Connor got to his feet, tugging on his hand. He just sat there looking up at him with a sparkle in his eyes that made Connor’s thirium pump regulator pick up speed. “What?”

 

“Cole would have loved you.”

 

If he could just turn back time and change events… Connor let out a little huff of breath of his own, a fine mist of frustrated regrets. Even if he _could_ go back in time and change events-- “You can’t be sure of that. You don’t know that, Hank.”

 

He pushed off the bench then, bent to press a tiny little kiss to Connor’s forehead. “I know Cole, I know you, that’s all I need. I _know_ . Now, let’s go before _your_ biocomponents start falling apart in the cold.”

 

They each said their goodbyes to Cole, wished him a merry Christmas and promised they’d be back soon.

 

***

 

Inside the house, there was great commotion: several pairs of feet running around in a frenzy of bags and boxes and tools. Sumo was locked in the bathroom, yowling, barking in high-pitched misery.

 

“Get the hammer! This thing won’t budge. Goddammit!”

 

“I told you to leave it, there’s not enough time.”

 

One of the intruders raised their hand in the air, hushing the others. Suddenly everyone was on high alert, eyes wide open, ears perked, everyone freezing in the middle of their assigned tasks. “I can hear a car!”

 

Their lookout cursed over by the window, peeking through the blinds. “They’re back! Quick!”

 

“Shit!”

 

They had less than a minute to rack ‘em, pack ‘em and stack ‘em. It was going to be tight, or they could all kiss their asses goodbye.

 

***

 

The first thing Hank noticed as Connor turned the car onto Michigan Drive and their house came into view, was that there was a light on in the living room. He knew he’d only left the lamp on in the kitchen, and that was not the ambient light he’d expect from a mostly darkened house. “Jesus-fucking-asshole,” he cursed. At the wheel, Connor perked up, and judging by the suddenly red LED flashing at his temple he came to the same conclusion as Hank.

 

“There’s someone in the house.” He clenched his jaw and parked the car a few houses up the street. Hank took point, as he did by way of habit and seniority. “I go high, you go low.”

 

“Got it!”

 

They crept towards the house, Connor scanning the bedroom through the gaps in the blinds. It was dark, bedroom door closed, seeming nothing amiss. “Clear,” he whispered. “But I can hear Sumo somewhere further in. He’s agitated.”

 

“Yeah,” replied Hank through gritted teeth, gliding towards the front door, key in one hand, gun in the other and pointed at the sky. “I can hear him too.”

 

Connor was right behind him, his own service gun at the ready, crouched and gun aimed at the ground. Neither one of them believed in firing first and asking questions later. Hank slid the key into the lock, turned it, put his hand on the knob, listening to the soft click as the door opened, his heart hammering in his chest and his head filled with a white noise that kept him focused on the moment and nothing else. “Go!”

 

He tackled the door open, Connor taking up position on the other side of the hall, and both of them froze at the sight before them: it was a kind of ordered chaos the likes of which Hank hadn’t seen in years, on the job or otherwise. Connor had never seen anything like it since he’d been manufactured. Not ever. And to top it off the entire room yelled at the sheer sight of them, in a chorus of co-mingling cheerfulness and terror.

 

“ _SURPRIIIIISE_ _!_ ” “JESUS CHRIST!” “ **DON’T SHOOT!** ”

 

Sumo came bounding towards them, yapping and yowling, positively dancing around them - and the lights weren’t merely lamps, or flashlights as Hank had first suspected, but hundreds of fairy lights bathing the house in a warm, white glow. And there was a big, round tray on the coffee table, packed with tea candles (safely spaced, for fire hazard reasons, but there was at least eight of them on there). There was a _tree_ by the fireplace, right where Sumo’s bed used to be - decked out with lights and tinsel and all kinds of decorations in red and gold. Some of them he didn’t recognize, but there were a couple others there that punched him right in the heart, stole away his breath.

 

Hank was so stunned he nearly dropped his gun to the floor, but Connor was there to take it from his limp hand. “Where did you-- Cole made that--”

 

Everyone was there, from Jeffrey and Lydia and their daughter Jessica, to Markus and Simon, Connor Mark II, Josh, North, and Cole’s mom and other-dad, Andrea and Eric. It was Andy who came over first, with that smile of hers that reminded everyone of their boy, and she hugged him, kissed his cheek. Eric wasn’t far behind, and the three of them ended up in a group hug. Their family unit had been torn apart by their son’s death, but they were still family - even if Hank hadn’t been part of the equation for going on three years.

 

Connor remained by the front door in a daze. He’d locked the door behind him once the threat turned out to be a false alarm, the guns put away in the drawer, but beyond that… It was a good thing he didn’t technically need to breathe, because he couldn’t remember how if his life had depended on it. “But-- How did you…? We were only gone for 1.83 hours, how did you know--?”

 

“Group effort.” Captain Fowler smiled at him, but his thumb pointed out the real culprit behind this most daring scheme: Connor Mark II, whose face turned a brighter shade of pink. They had that in common, among other things, that neither one of them enjoyed being in the spotlight.

 

“I… I know Hank wanted to do something special for the holidays, but with-- everything,” no one and nothing mentioned nor forgotten. “I thought… Well, I thought you could use a hand.”

 

“And he does have a spare key,” Markus piped up, beaming like he had been stuffed with Christmas cheer until it was coming out his ears.

 

“There’s roast potatoes in the oven,” added Simon.

 

“And ham on the bone,” said Lydia, coming over for her turn at hugging and kissing. “And gravy. Enough to feed a small army. But you know what I say about the army.”

 

“It marches on its stomach,” Mark II supplied, and Jeff bounced off that notion but immediately.

 

“Damn right it does!”

 

Snowy shoes and wet coats were left by the door, and soon they were all gathered around the coffee table, kitchen chairs added to the couch and armchair - they were all barefoot but for their socks and dressed for the occasion in a variety of Christmasy casual wear, some more Christmasy than others (Jeffrey’s snowflake patterned knit sweaters were a given this time of year, off duty; someone had given Mark II a red blazer with a white reindeer pattern; Andrea wore a gold-green-and-red striped bow tie with her boatneck sweater). Everyone who wanted got a plate of food and a mug of non-alcoholic apple cider; not all androids could partake of the food, like the RK800s (though they both stuck their fingers at Hank’s plate of food for purposes of analysis, and Hank let them), and others yet didn’t necessarily want to - but they were all there, talking, complaining about the weather, or traffic, discussing the latest news, touching base the way human beings had done for aeons. More than that, they had come together as a family to be there for people they loved whether they shared blood or serial numbers or came from the same product line.

 

The fire crackled behind the safety glass, lending a warmth to the house that was already filled to the brim with the stuff. Connor sat next to Hank on the couch, eyes moving from one detail to the other, while Jessica regaled them with the story of how they came to break and enter their house for a noble cause: to save Christmas, even if on a slightly smaller scale than in the movies.

 

Cole’s photo still had pride of place beside the tv, but now it was decorated with a teeny tiny santa hat. There were garlands hanging from the visible beam between kitchen and living room. Everywhere he looked there was something new - a stack of bright red candles standing at attention in the bookshelf, tied off with a dark green satin bow, a Japanese manga style snowman magnet on the fridge. Bright red bells placed along the mantlepiece. A wreath hanging above the fireplace, where Hank’s autographed photos of local jazz legends had once reigned supreme. Even Sumo had a red bow tied around his neck instead of his collar - he was working his inimitable charms on North, who had come a long way from where she started out: bitter and hurting and hateful, distrustful and scared, wanting to watch the world burn just to prove to humans they’d done wrong. She smiled more, these days. She could spend an entire morning working _alongside humans_ for a joint effort, and now she sat there with them, laughing and bantering, and completely smitten with the resident canine.

 

 _So this is Christmas_ , thought Connor, watching his friends and family - extended or chosen - and gave Hank a one armed hug around the shoulders. It wasn’t so much about the decorations, like he had surmised long before: frozen pizza and heavy metal would still have made for a nice Christmas, after all. But...the effort everyone put into this, because they cared, because they knew how important this time of year used to be for Hank, and Connor Mark II wasn’t the only one who knew Hank had wanted to really make it a special one since it was Mark I’s first time celebrating it. Everyone sitting here around the table had heard him or Hank talk about it, and in the end it didn’t really matter whose idea it had been to start with, or who had enabled whom to do what. It was the best first Christmas present Connor could have wished for.

 

The best _second_ Christmas present he could ever have wished for was seeing Hank laughing again, grinning like he hadn’t done in months. He was happy in the moment, which meant Connor was happy, and they were surrounded by their loved ones, be it in the flesh or in spirit.

 

His eyes went to Cole’s photo, and for a split second it felt as though their eyes locked with each other. It almost looked like his smile stretched, bringing out his dimples.

 

Connor didn’t consider himself religious in any sense of the word, but neither did he view himself as an atheist, or even an agnostic. He didn’t believe in rA9, like so many of the deviant population, nor any human deity. But...he would go so far as to believe in the existence of sentience, of soul, or heart, or spirit, whichever name one put to it. Not because it was at all likely that there was some as yet non-quantifiable higher power that enabled the spirit of the deceased to continue existing on some different plane, but because deviancy itself proved a very important point. It was a point he’d made in the past, and he stood by it to this day:

 

Statistically speaking, there was always a chance of unlikely events to take place.


End file.
